


The Fourth Drink Instinct

by dear_monday



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: House Party, M/M, Unrequited Love, Van Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-28
Updated: 2011-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dear_monday/pseuds/dear_monday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Mikey presses a bottle into his hand, cool and solid and reassuringly heavy. It fits easily into Ray's hand, settled comfortably against his palm.</i> Written for an <a href="http://anon_lovefest.livejournal.com">anon_lovefest</a> prompt: "Ray Toro: Three Beer Queer."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fourth Drink Instinct

  
**#1**   


"I don't..." starts Ray half-heartedly. He thinks the end of that sentence should probably have been _really want to get shitfaced tonight_ , but Mikey is giving him that – that fucking _look_ and he just doesn't have the energy to refuse. Mikey presses a bottle into his hand, cool and solid and reassuringly heavy. It fits easily into Ray's hand, settled comfortably against his palm.

"Dude," says Mikey firmly. "You need to chill. Swear to fucking god, you've put on five years in the last month. If you have a nervous breakdown and have to spend a month in a psych ward somewhere then we're all fucked. We can't play without you, dude," he says, earnest in that way he's picked up from Gerard. Mikey's _noticed_ , Ray realizes, noticed the way everyone's shit – Gerard's, Otter's, Frank's – has been weighing him down lately. He hadn't thought anyone had been looking, not at him, not when there are so many car crashes happening all around him.

He's underestimated Mikey, he thinks, uneasy and embarrassed, but then, so do a lot of people.

Ray downs the first mouthful and Mikey's mouth quirks into a little crooked smile.

 

  
**#2**   


"I shouldn't," Ray says. The empty bottle is nudging reproachfully against his ankle. Someone's got to make sure Gerard ends up back at the motel and not in some stranger's car, and stop Frank beating the shit out of anyone who goes near Gerard, and stop Otter encouraging Frank. Now he's had that first beer, tasted the beginning of the buzz, he's starting to think about the last time he let himself let go for a few hours, about how many months ago that was.

"What you should do is stop fucking worrying about everyone else for one fucking night," says Mikey. "Seriously, dude, I got it." He looks strange under the dim lights, paler, with dramatic rings of shadow around his eyes. "Besides, who says no to free beer?"

"Point," Ray concedes. Mikey turns away to get him another drink and light slides over the jut of cheekbone.

 _Mikey Way_ , Ray thinks. _Huh_.

  
**#3**   


Bottle number three slips through Ray's fingers and rolls away across the floor. He doesn't move to pick it up. He's feeling nicely buzzed, not drunk yet, but loose and warm and easy. He's sitting on someone's couch with Mikey pressed up against his side, his stupid bird's nest hair tickling Ray's neck.

"Mikey," he says. It feels strange, his tongue slow and heavy in his mouth. He's not an ebullient drunk like Frank or a mercurial one like Gerard; he just _mellows_. "Mikey," he says again. "You see a lot of shit. More than most people think."

Mikey huffs out a soft laugh; he's a few drinks ahead of Ray, and Ray feels the slight tremors in every point of contact between them. "Uh, yeah?" he says. "Kind of the point of the glasses, dude."

"No, no," Ray says, shaking his head. "You see shit. Shit other people don't notice."

Mikey doesn't disagree with that. "Like you," he says softly.

"Yeah," agrees Ray. "Like – that. Like me."

Mikey shifts impossibly closer. One of Mikey's bony hands snakes out and settles over Ray's thigh, light and warm through Ray's jeans, and the touch is reassuring and anchoring and it feels so good Ray doesn't move away.

"Ray?"

Ray turns his head slightly to face Mikey. Slowly, hesitantly, Mikey leans in, and the first brush of lips is dry and chaste and oh-so-tentative. Mikey licks at the seam of Ray's mouth and makes a low, wanting noise as Ray opens up for him. Ray doesn't know what he's doing, doesn't care, and just this once, it's _freeing_ and fucking perfect. It doesn't matter that this is Mikey, that Mikey's a dude and their bassist and Gerard's brother and Ray's friend and a _dude_ , doesn't matter that Ray doesn't do this.

Then, Mikey's hand skims cautiously up Ray's side, and Ray stiffens.

"Mikey," he murmurs into Mikey's mouth. "Mikey, Mikey, I don't... I'm not..."

"I _know_ , fuck." There's something in Mikey's voice that Ray can't name, doesn't want to, something hard and sharp and sad. "Ray, I know, just the beer, right? I'm not asking... we can wake up tomorrow and forget this ever happened, if you want. Just, fucking – just give me this, okay?"

So Ray does.


End file.
